Stanislaw Lem: Peace on Earth

“Tichy…” he finally groaned. “For God’s sake. No, it’s not possible. That’s not how they work.”

“Did I say how? I had a dream, that’s all. Didn’t I tell you, I’m clairvoyant.”

Kramer suddenly decided. Putting his finger to his lips, he left quickly. Certain that he would be back, I hid the box of chocolates under my shirts in the closet and had time to shower and shave before I heard him knock lightly. He wore a white suit and under his arm held a large bundle wrapped in a towel. He drew the curtains and from the bundle pulled apparatuses that he positioned with their black funnels pointed at all the walls. From a black box he plugged a cord into a wall socket and fiddled with something else, wheezing, because he was really quite fat, his belly altogether authentic, and was probably pushing sixty. Face flushed, he knelt and struggled with his electronics, then finally straightened with a grunt and a sigh.

“Now we can talk,” he said.

“About?” I asked, putting on my nicest shirt, the one with the blue collar. “But you first. You might want to tell me about the gray hair I’ve given you. After your boss assured you I was as insulated here as a fly in a bottle. But say what you like, speak, confess, unburden yourself. You’ll see how much better you feel.”

And suddenly, apropos of nothing, like a poker player who wins the pot with a pair of threes, I tossed off: “What division are you in, the fourth?”

“No, the first —”

He stopped himself.

“What do you know about me?”

“Enough of that.” I sat on a chair, its back in front of me. “Surely you don’t think I’m giving you something for nothing.”

“What do you want to know?”

“We could start with Shapiro,” I said pleasantly.

“He’s from the LA. That’s a fact.”

“And more than just a neurologist.”

“He has another job.”

“Go on.”

“What do you know about the selenosphere?”

“What do you know?”

It occurred to me that maybe I’d overplayed my hand. If he was a secret agent, it didn’t matter for whom, he wouldn’t know that much. Scientists didn’t usually involve themselves in such activity. But this was an unusual case, so I could be wrong.

“Enough of this hide-and-seek,” said Kramer. He was desperate. His white jacket had patches of sweat under the arms. “Sit here next to me,” he muttered, getting down on the carpet.

We sat as if to smoke a peace pipe, in the center of a circle of gizmos and wires.

Before he had time to open his mouth, the drone of an engine could be heard above us and a great shadow swept across the garden and windows. Kramer grew bug-eyed. The throbbing faded, then returned. A helicopter hung just above the trees. There were two reports, as if someone had uncorked enormous bottles of champagne. The helicopter was so low, I could see the people in its cabin. One of them opened the door and shot another flare downward. Kramer jumped up. I didn’t dream he could move so fast. He rushed from the room, his head down. From the helicopter something shiny fell and was lost in the grass. With a roar the machine lifted and flew off. On his knees in the high grass, Kramer opened a container no larger than a soccer ball, took out something, an envelope, and tore it open. The message must have been important because the paper shook in his hands. He looked in my direction. He was pale, changed. Again he read the paper, and stood. He crumpled it in his fist, put it in his pocket, and slowly crossed the lawn, not bothering to take the path. He came back in and without a word kicked one of the antibug devices. Something in it crackled and there was a little blue smoke from it. I still sat on the floor, and Kramer stamped on his equipment and tore at the wires as if he’d gone insane in earnest. Finally, out of breath, he took off his jacket and sank into the armchair. Then he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, and grunted.

“I just lost my temper,” he explained. “They’ll retire me. Your career too is finished. Forget about the moon. You can send a postcard to Shapiro. Care of the Agency. They’ll still be there for a while, out of inertia.”

I said nothing, suspecting some new trick. Kramer took a large plaid handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow, and regarded me, I thought, with a mixture of pity and resentment.

“It started two hours ago and is going like a house on fire, everywhere. Incredible. We’re pacified, all right, here and overseas and from pole to pole! The global loss — trillions of dollars. Including space, because the satellites were the first to go. Why are you gaping?” he added, irritated. “Haven’t you figured it out? I got a letter from our Uncle Sam…”

“What does it say?”

“You think we’re still playing? No, my friend, the game is over. Sit down and write about your adventures, the Agency, the Mission, whatever you like. Maybe it will be a bestseller. And no one will touch a hair on your head. But don’t put it off, or the guys at the Agency may scoop you. They may already be starting their memoirs about the old order…”

“What has happened?”

“Everything. Did you ever hear of Sim Wars?”

“No.”

“Core Wars?”

“Aren’t those computer games?”

“Ah, you see, you do know! Yes. Programs that destroy other programs. They were thought up back in the eighties. They were unimportant then. An amusement for programmers. Viruses and counter-viruses. DWARF, CREEPER, RAIDER, DARWIN, and a hundred others. But here I am giving you a lecture on cybertronic pathology.” He grimaced. “This has cost me my health! And now I fill you in instead of looking for a new job!”

“Uncle Sam sends you letters by copter? Isn’t the post office working?” I asked, still sniffing for a trap.

Kramer took out his checkbook, scribbled something across a check, made a paper airplane out of it, and sailed it onto my lap.

“To the Missionary: a souvenir from Adelaide,” I read. “What are you getting at?”

“That’s all it’s good for. Uncle sends his greetings, of course. There is no post office. There is nothing now, nothing.” He swept his arms in a circle. “All gone! It started two hours ago, didn’t I tell you? Doesn’t matter who’s to blame. Your professor too is out of work. Nice old man! At least I bought a house in time. I’ll grow roses, vegetables, for barter. No more banks now either. It’s stuffy in here…”

He fanned himself with his checkbook. Then he looked at it with disgust and threw it into the wastebasket.

"Pax Vobiscum,” he spat. “ Et cum spiritu tuo."

I began to understand. He wasn’t pretending.

“Those viruses?” I asked slowly.

“Yes, my brave little Missionary. This is your work. It was you who brought that clever dust to Earth. Now they can either give you the Nobel Peace Prize or have you shot for treason. I wouldn’t pin your hopes on a Nobel, but you’ve definitely made it into the history books. You brought humanity a plague, whether of doom or deliverance is up to the historians to thrash out over the coming years. You’ll be in every encyclopedia.”

“Maybe together with you?” I suggested. I still didn’t know exactly what had befallen us, but Kramer wasn’t playacting, I’d have bet both halves of my poor head on that.

“There was another program then, WORM,” Kramer went on sadly. “You have to realize that nowadays a person in my profession has to have a higher education. Those days are gone when it was enough to be a beautiful woman, go to bed with someone, photograph a stolen document in the bathroom, and it’s back to Washington. No, first you need a Ph.D. in math, then information theory, then your specialty, and it’s half your life in school before you can even begin.”